


Seek Not...

by rivendellrose



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-07
Updated: 2012-10-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 20:48:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/531536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivendellrose/pseuds/rivendellrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Giles just can't keep things private around the kids. 3 vignettes. Some mention of Giles/Ethan in the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seek Not...

Willow

The keys were only for emergencies. Giles’d had them made - one each for Buffy and Willow, and a spare hidden in a little fake rock outside his apartment - in case they ever had to get into his apartment when he wasn’t around, or had been seriously injured. Or, more realistically, knocked unconscious. Willow wondered sometimes whether Xander felt left out of the arrangement, but since he never went over to Giles’ without either her or Buffy, it seemed to be okay. 

What was definitely not okay was using the key to get into his apartment and look for magic books while Giles was away. 

He’d gone out of town to look for Buffy again, and that meant he’d be gone for a few days at least. And since Willow had a thought on how she might be able to track her friend, she needed the books _then_. Which, she told herself, clearly constituted an emergency. Of a magic-book-needing kind of sort, but still important. And it wasn’t like he wouldn’t have given her the books if he’d been there, so it was all hunky-dory. 

It couldn’t be breaking-and-entering if they gave you a key, right?

After getting inside and locking the door behind her - even though it was still sunny and light out, it was better not to take chances, what with the Slayer being gone - Willow went straight to the bookshelf. Not the one in the living room where Giles kept the really basic books that he didn’t mind just anybody seeing, but the one in his room, where he kept all the advanced stuff. Yeah, okay, maybe going into a grown-up’s bedroom was a little weird when she thought about it, but it wasn’t like she was poking through his underwear drawer or something. She went straight to the bookshelf, exactly like she would if he’d been there. 

Even when he wasn’t at work, Giles still thought like a librarian. That meant that even his personal bookcases were organized by a system. But it wasn’t like the Dewey decimal system - it was more like the Giles System. If you wanted to find something, you had to know how Giles thought about it. It made for some interesting associations, like how a nearly complete collection of the works of E. M. Forster was shelved next to a book on Gypsies with, tucked between the books, a thin silver picture frame with a photo of Ms. Calendar at the Winter Ball. Or how this one particular book on garden flowers was up here with the advanced herbals, while all the others were down in the living room... that one she didn’t understand. But that was a mystery that would have to wait for another day. Not that she meant to do this again, just... in case.

The really serious magic books were hidden behind the rest, double-shelved so they were out of sight. That was another of Giles’ tricks, one that he used even in his school office to hide the books he needed for their demon-slaying stuff but that he’d be in big trouble if Principal Snyder started really looking at. Willow carefully set a wooden box on the bed - when opened, it turned out to be filled with bottles of scented oils and stuff, which was kinda funny because Willow never figured Giles for wearing perfume - and then moved aside the herbals and reached back. The one she was looking for was bound in leather, soft and sort of dusty to the touch, and about as thick as her palm. As tall as her forearm. And the binding had a sort of an alligator-skin pattern to it. Triumphant, she pulled the book out from the darkness and replaced the box to keep the herbals from falling while she did her work.

This book in particular, she’d only seen Giles take out once. It had been during the whole crisis with Angelus, and it had been one of his last resorts - he’d brought the book in from home, but he’d just kept it on his desk, never opened it. When Buffy’d asked about it, he’d only said that he hoped they wouldn’t have to consult it, but that he wanted it on hand in case everything else failed. 

Well, now that they were trying to find Buffy before something bad happened to her (or to Sunnydale)... that was a call for last resorts, Willow figured. And since it’d only occurred to her while he was gone... Well, she had to read the book, now, right? 

The problem with that logic being that it was a big book, and she didn’t know where to start looking for whatever it was Giles knew was in there. 

The book itself seemed to have an answer to that, though. When she set the book on the bed, the pages wanted to open right away to a particular page. Something was tucked in there - some papers. A letter, Willow realized as she looked closer. A letter addressed to someone named Ripper.

Hadn’t Buffy said that the guy who showed up during the whole demon thing, that old friend of Giles’, called him Ripper?

There wasn’t any date on the letter, but it was yellowed and worn in a way that told Willow immediately that the letter was old. Inside, the paper was a little less discolored - like it didn’t get opened much and had absorbed some of the color on the outside just from the pages of the book around it. The writing inside was plain, sort of spiky, but not illegible. And it was dated July of 1978.

_Ripper,_

_I know you’re hacked off at me. And you’ve got your reasons. Everything you said about Randall and the rest... it doesn’t make sense to me, but I know it’s how you’re feeling. And I respect that, I do. But leaving like this... Ripper, you’ve gotta come back. It’s not the same without you._

_Randall was a good bloke - he was, even though I never said it when he was around - but he was a piss-poor sorceror. He thought he could take more power than he could, and maybe we should’ve done more to keep him from it, but we’re not his mum and dad. What he did, it wasn’t our fault. And maybe you’re right, maybe Eyghon’s too much for us. Deirdre’s been saying the same, and she’s gone off, says she’s going to go back to nursing school like she always said she’d do. Whatever. It’s not like I’m stopping her. But going back to the tweed-and-cigars commission, Ripper? I know that’s not you._

_When you came here, to London, you told me you wanted freedom. You got it. You told me you wanted to live, and I gave you that. You and me, we’ve had every kind of high that’s available to mortal man, and a few I think are probably meant to be kept only to the gods, right? And now you’re leaving that to - what? Go stick your head in a dusty book for the rest of your life? That’s not you, Ripper. It doesn’t have to be._

_I know you hate it when I get all soppy on you, but in all seriousness, mate - I can’t imagine living without you. I can’t imagine going on, knowing that you’ve gone back to all that shit your dad tried to fob off on you when you were a kid, and I can’t picture you pushing some girl to her death like you always said the watching gig does. I want my Ripper back. I want you right here, in the flat, pissing and moaning that I’ve gone and left my stupid mags all over the floor again, and that I’ve dropped a cig in your whiskey while I was stoned. I want you bitching about me playing my music too loud while you’re trying to read some dead language or other, and I want you... I want you. Here. In me, stretching me to the point I think I’ll snap, pushing me until there’s nothing left. On the sofa, on the bed, in the bath, whatever you want. Whatever you can think of. Anything you want from me, I’ll give it to you, because I bloody well can’t seem to get on without you anymore. I miss you. I can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t do a damned thing without thinking about you. You’re all over the flat, like I can still smell you or something. And I need that to not be all I’ve got of you._

_Come back, and I swear you won’t regret it. I’ll be good - you know how good I can be. And then we can play it the other way round and I’ll be bad, if you like, ‘cause I know you like that, too. Bad and badder, that’s us, right?_

_Come on, Ripper. Give us a call. A letter. Something, anything, and you know I’ll be on your doorstep before you can spit, just as soon as you name the place. You can be as angry as you like with me; just do it while I’m there to enjoy the show. Tie me up, whip me, pound me into the mattress or the bare floor for all I care, as long as you’re with me again._

_The world’s no fun without you. And I have a hard time believing yours can be much fun without me._

_Yours, whether you like it or not,_

_~Ethan._

 

So that was... That was... Willow stared at the page, fascinated. She’d read about all sorts of sex things before this - her parents were psychologists, after all, and even if they didn’t particularly know how to actually raise a teenage daughter, they had a lot of ideas on how to educate one. There’d been frank and scientifically honest books about puberty, bodies, and sex hanging around the house since she was probably seven, and she’d cheerfully educated herself out of them early on. And then reread them for the details once she was old enough to actually understand what they were talking about. And she’d talked to Buffy about what she’d done with Angel, up until the point where it all went bad because Angel’d gone all evil because of it, because after that it didn’t really seem like the kind of thing Buffy’d want to talk about. But this was... _Giles_. And him and this Ethan sounded like they’d really been happy together.

So why hadn’t it worked out? 

They’d had a fight - that much was clear, although the details were as fuzzy as they ever were when people fought, and that worried Willow quite a bit. She hated when people fought. It didn’t make sense, and it worried her. After the fight, it looked like Giles had run off, and gone away to be a watcher, which led eventually to him ending up here in Sunnydale. And then Ethan had turned up here, hadn’t he? And from what Buffy’d said, he’d come looking for Giles. 

She reread the last few paragraphs. This poor guy seemed so in love with Giles, and Giles was a good person. If they’d just been more patient... if things had gone differently... then maybe Giles wouldn’t be so lonely as he seemed now. 

Frowning, Willow carefully folded the letter back into the book and tucked it into her backpack. She could do the rest of her reading at home, later. She had enough to think about for the moment.

 

Xander

The name of the game was cookie-hunting.

Well, not a _name_ , really, so much as a description, but Xander figured that was close enough. And not just any cookies, mind you - he wasn’t about to press his luck against Giles’ temper for plain old run-of-the-mill Oreos, for instance. These were... well, he didn’t know _what_ they were, exactly, but they were buttery, yellow-brown little cookies that came in a tin box, and Giles was insanely protective of them. 

Buffy had found the cookies in his cupboard one of the first times they’d come over to his apartment to work on something and Giles, in a fit of either generosity or stupidity, had allowed them to be taken down from the shelf with all the tea and mugs and things, and opened. Xander hadn’t thought much of them just from looking - he was usually more of a frosting or chocolate kind of guy when it came to cookies, and these had neither - but he was hungry, and the pizza wasn’t going to be there for at least an hour. So he’d taken one. 

It was, quite possibly, the best-tasting cookie he’d ever eaten. Certainly the best that hadn’t been laced with mind-altering chemicals by a murderous robot. 

At least as far as he knew it hadn’t. To be fair, he’d never suspected those chocolate chip cookies, either.

In any case, that was why it had to have been a moment of passing insanity for Giles to allow them access to those cookies - all three of them fell immediately in lust for the things, and that tin was emptied before the pizza arrived. Ever since then, Giles had been inventing more and more clever hiding places for the cookies whenever he managed to have them shipped in... and Xander had made it his purpose in life, whenever he was in Giles’ apartment, to try to track down the latest hiding-spot.

It wasn’t like he was stealing. He’d bring the tin out for everybody, just as soon as he’d tried one to make sure they were okay, and Giles would put up a frustrated token argument before relenting, stealing a handful of the cookies for himself, and retreat to his favorite sulking-chair with a cup of tea. Probably to plot the next nefarious hiding place for the Cookies of Doom. The guy probably enjoyed it, deep down - it was probably a game to him. Otherwise, why would he keep buying them and hiding them places, rather than just eating them all in secret whenever he managed to get his hands on a box?

The possibility that Giles’ normal eating habits might not so strongly resemble those of Xander’s twenty-four year-old cousin Lauralee didn’t quite make it into the equation. With the exception of the fact that Giles probably wasn’t bulimic. Not like that mattered in this situation, right? What mattered was finding the cookies.

So the big question was... where had the British guy hidden them this time?

The kitchen was out of the game - all hiding places there had been used already, and Giles had started moving further and further out into the rest of the apartment. So... linen closet? Taking a quick peek back to where the others were still talking over the latest demonic threat to Sunnydale, Xander opened the door and did a quick search. Nope... no cookies here. Just way more handkerchiefs and tea towels than any straight man should have been allowed to own, as far as he was concerned. Discounting the bathroom - even Giles wasn’t devious enough to hide cookies there - Xander moved as quietly as he could up the stairs. 

It was really lucky that the girls were arguing loudly about something - otherwise, there was no way any of them would miss him going up there. There weren’t all that many excuses for it, either. What could he say? ‘Sorry, after four years I forgot where the bathroom was’? 

The big trunk at the end of Giles’ bed looked like a likely spot. A fleeting moment of guilt assaulted Xander as he lifted the lid. Giles had been a pretty good guy about all their bad habits and invasions, and he’d always been... well, he didn’t exactly get along with Xander in a traditional sense, but he was kind of like a less-drunken, stuffy uncle of some kind. That deserved respect of some kind. But... _cookies._ Cookies would always win. So he opened the trunk and started rummaging. There! The tin was nestled at the bottom among a bunch of blankets and sweaters and books that looked like they probably came wrapped in brown paper. Xander shook his head and shoved them aside - if Giles thought covering the cookies with his collection of dirty books, he clearly hadn’t absorbed much of what Xander said about his uncle. Triumphant, Xander pulled the tin out, opened it, and...

Stared. 

There weren’t any cookies at all in here. There were photos. Old photos - black and white, and a few early color pictures that were dingy and yellow-toned. And they were all of a young man with slightly curly hair and a rakish, rebel-type grin. Wearing a black leather jacket, posing with a tall, skinny guy with sort of mismatched features, playing a guitar... at the center of a group of teenagers with other instruments, on a stage. And these weren’t instruments with weird Italian names, either. More than anything, Xander thought it looked like the pictures of Oz with the rest of the “Dingoes Ate My Baby” gang. 

Giles in a band?

Worse than that, it appeared that Giles... had been _cool_. 

There were clearly a few groups of young men and women spread through various years, but the young Giles retained the same cocky grin and arrogant pose through all of them. With the innate sense of the geek and the downtrodden, Xander recognized the kind of guy who he Really Shouldn’t Mess With. And Giles had been that. 

That... was just weird. 

“Xander?” 

He jumped, but it was just Buffy’s voice, shouting from the living room. He hadn’t been caught. They’d just noticed that he was gone. 

“Come on, Xander - Willow and Giles think they’ve figured out how we can kill these things, but we need to get some... _what?_ Look, just hurry up, okay? We need to make a few supply runs.”

“Uh... yeah, I’m coming.”

Xander shifted the pictures back into the box and shoved it back to the bottom of the trunk, squishing down the sweaters and all back atop it. Whatever weird plan they’d come up with, it had to be easier than accepting that Giles, the king of tweed, had once been... well, pretty awesome looking. Maybe a little evil, yeah, from what the girls had said, but... 

On the other hand, if there was possibility of a guy with that kind of chill coming down to being a librarian and wearing suits all the time, maybe there was hope that it moved the other way, too. Maybe there was still a chance for Xander. 

He closed lid of the trunk as quietly as possible and hurried downstairs. Killing demons had to be points in the favor of cool on some list somewhere, right?

 

Buffy

Buffy still couldn’t believe that Giles was leaving. His bags have been sitting, still neatly packed, in the corner of the living room for so long that she doesn’t even think of them being temporary anymore - they were just part of the decor, like her mom’s artwork or Dawn’s schoolbag, or Willow’s laptop on the table. 

Everybody else seemed willing to accept it - they’d already seen him leave once, so maybe it seemed normal to them. Off goes Giles, back to England again. Or maybe they were just afraid to bring it up - that seemed to be happening a lot lately. People just didn’t want to talk. Not about her, not about Tara leaving, not about the disaster with all of them losing their memories thanks to Willow’s botched spell. And especially not about everything the music-demon had brought out, or what it meant that Buffy had been in heaven before they brought her back from the dead. Everybody just wanted to keep on playing that everything was normal and all hunky-dory.

Well, fine. They could keep right on not-talking. Buffy was going to get answers while she still could. 

She’d begged off to bed earlier, and waited in her darkened bedroom - she was fairly sure that the others watched her light sometimes to make sure that she slept - until she heard the TV click off, followed by the sound of Giles’ rental car leaving the driveway. He’d promised Tara that he’d drive her and her things to the motel where she was renting until she could find a decent apartment. A few moments later she heard Dawn stomp upstairs and into her own bedroom. And since Willow was already in bed, that meant she’d have at least half an hour in which to go through the bag Giles had waiting in the living room for when he left. For the airport. Tomorrow morning. 

_It’s not fair. I need him. What could possibly be so important in England that he can’t stay here, at least until I’ve got a few things figured out?_

Of course, that was always the way it went, wasn’t it? There wasn’t anything particularly important in Los Angeles, either, or in some stupid South American jungle, or wherever her dad had gotten to in his grand world-tour with that ditzy secretary of his. They were all just somewhere _else_. Somewhere not Sunnydale, not where she was. Angel, Riley, her dad... Giles was the one who was supposed to know better and stay for her no matter what. Wasn’t that his job?

That was what brought her to creeping over to his bag, and opening it to search out the book she knew he had hidden away inside. It _was_ his job to keep an eye on her and that meant that he had to have written about his decision _not_ to do that job in his watcher’s journal. Sure, it wasn’t really right for her to read his journal, but she figured it was a professional thing. It was about her, so why shouldn’t she have the right to read it? Especially since a bunch of obnoxious old jerks in England were going to be reading it and putting it aside for future generations of watchers to study and supposedly learn from. 

So as soon as she’d slipped back downstairs, Buffy pounced on the bag and started digging through the detritus that Giles had packed for his temporary stay in the place that was supposed to be his home. Shaving kit, toothpaste, and one of those neat little travel toothbrush cases, along with an empty glasses-case - the things he’d used that morning - naturally piled up at the top. Some boring old book whose title she vaguely recollected from an intro to literature class in college, with a ribbon sticking between the pages about two-thirds of the way through. He must have been up late the night before - she remembered seeing the ribbon only a few chapters in, yesterday. 

So he was feeling guilty about leaving. Buffy tried to stifle a feeling of vicious pleasure at that thought, and continued digging. 

An extra pair of corduroy trousers, a few neatly-folded dress shirts, rolled-up socks, clean underwear... A few years before, that last would completely have set her back on her heels, as unwilling to handle the idea of Giles’ underwear as she was the thought of finding a vibrator that her mom had hidden away in the sock drawer. At this point, a little mental disturbance was well worth the goal of finding... _Bingo._

The plain, leather-bound journal was tucked away in the bottom of the duffle, cushioned by a package of handkerchiefs. No bookmark in this one, though. Buffy picked a random spot and opened.

_...Lacking any further knowledge of Angel’s motives, we may only assume that he will strike at Buffy and those around her. His background and profile indicate obsessive focus on his prey, particularly on young women who have attracted his attention. It is unlikely Angel will immediately attack Buffy herself - he is more likely to go after her friends and family as a means of causing her torment, with the intent of breaking her will and mind. Knowing this, I have warned Buffy to keep a close watch on her sister, who would provide an obvious and relatively accessible target, as well as..._

Right. Too early. Buffy flipped a good chunk of pages ahead, unwilling to see what Giles must have written in the next few weeks, particularly the time after Angel killed Jenny Calendar. She didn’t need to see it in writing to know that he blamed her for his girlfriend’s death. If she hadn’t been so determined to cut the Gypsy woman out of their confidence at the beginning... She pushed that thought aside. The next passage she lighted on, however, didn’t give her anything better.

_13 March, 2000. Something about early spring seems to beget death in southern California. Perhaps it is the constant heat - it sets the seasons off from their usual calendar. Joyce Summers passed away early this afternoon, survived by her two daughters and one irresponsible arse of an ex-husband. Buffy spent some time this evening attempting to call him - she claims the time-difference between here and Spain makes it easier to contact him now, but I expect that it is rather more to do with her not being able to sleep. Understandable. For my part, I’ve set up camp in the living room for the night. It would not do to leave her and Dawn alone at this time, particularly with our recent difficulties regarding the demon Glory._

_Note Bene: Let it be known to the council ~~should they ever again deign to read my journal~~ that I have filed paperwork at the courthouse here in Sunnydale to the effect that my worldly belongings are to default to Ms. Buffy Summers on the occasion of my death, or to her younger sister, Dawn, if the former should predecease me. Copies of said paperwork have been sent to my family solicitor in Oxford, and to Angel whatever-he’s-calling-himself-now in Los Angeles, care of his investigation agency. However I occasionally dislike the man, he will do what is right should this become necessary._

_It isn’t much. But it’s all I can do at this point._

Buffy flinched away from the pages, struck by the memories that the page brought out. The memory of her mother’s body layered over in her mind with Giles’ tender concern, the way he’d stepped in and taken care of things, done the dishes and answered the phone, and the awkward conversation they’d had in the gas station from hell as she’d come to think of it, out in the middle of the desert when the spear from those psycho-knights had almost skewered him to death. Much as she hated to admit it, he’d been more of a father to her in those months than her own had in years. 

What the hell had changed? Was it just her coming back from the dead, or something else? She flipped a few more pages, determined to figure things out.

_30 June, 2000. We buried her today._

Well... that was something closer to what she wanted, right? Shrugging off the barest hints of a shiver - what was that old phrase her mom had liked to use? ‘Like someone just walked over my grave?’ - Buffy read on.

_With the need for secrecy, it should have been an unmarked grave, but I couldn’t bring myself to allow that. Her headstone was simple, the epitaph plain but true - I would not have thought Xander could be so oddly eloquent._

_Dawn continues to pass most of her time with Spike, a situation that I suppose ought to worry me. Somehow, I find it difficult to argue against when the nearest memory of the vampire paints him on his knees at her sister’s side, sobbing over her untimely death. He swears that he will keep up the last promise he made to Buffy, to keep Dawn safe, and I find to my surprise that I believe him. He has become an ally, in a strange way a friend, and, oddly, a comfort in that he alone among the children understands that this is the ending that has always been writ at the end of Buffy’s story. The slayer dies to save the world. That is her purpose._

_I always thought those words cold comfort, when I read them in the hand of another watcher who had lost his charge. Now I understand that they are simply the only words that can be thought in the midst of this pain._

_Anya is pushing for me to give up the store to her. Willow and Tara remain in the Summers’ home, taking care of Dawn and maintaining the illusion, with the help of that disturbing robot, that the slayer is still alive and well in Sunnydale. Life goes on, it seems, though I find myself untouched by it. For my part, I mean to go home soon, as soon as I can make the necessary preparations and ascertain that the children will get by without me. Sunnydale has become increasingly haunted for me, and I don’t think I can survive the constant memories. I need to be at home, in England, where there will be no more reminders of how I have failed them all._

_She said something to me once about how little our chronicles relate of the manner of death of slayers in the past. She was surprised, I think, and embarrassed when I told her that I rather felt it would hurt too much to write details. I meant what I told her, and more. Had she been my own daughter, I don’t think I could miss her more._

Buffy swallowed and looked away from the book. It wasn’t that the feeling it brought on overwhelmed her - she could tell that it should. Compared to the emptiness she felt, she wished that it _would_ do that - at least then she wouldn’t feel so hollow and dark inside, like a room no one used, where the lights hadn’t been turned on in months. Instead, she felt struck by how, exactly as Giles had written, life really had gone on without her. Everyone had been doing just fine. And so had she. 

If Willow hadn’t done the stupid spell, in a few years she would have been nothing more than a footnote in one of those big musty books that Giles was always consulting. And honestly, that sounded pretty good to her.

But it was getting late, and she still hadn’t found what she was looking for. She turned the page - the present day couldn’t be all that far off. The next entry was hurriedly written, nothing more than a note that Willow had called and announced her success at the resurrection spell. Buffy flipped hurriedly past that and the next, much longer entry dated the day Giles had returned to Sunnydale. _I was there. I don’t need to read about that._ And then...

_2 November, 2000. This must end. I need to leave._

That was the one, then. Earlier than she’d expected - he’d been thinking of it even before the musical extravaganza disaster and the memory mess that followed. _He never really wanted to stay at all, did he? Probably has a whole new life in England that he’s gotten used to, and I’m just messing it..._

Something on the page caught her eye.

_Buffy’s behaviour lately has assured me that my presence here does nothing to benefit her progress, either as a slayer or as a woman._

What the hell was _that_ supposed to mean?

_In the past, I have often in the past been grateful for her reliance on me - a selfish old man, wanting never to lose the one living person in this world who is most important to him. But if the last months have taught me anything, it should be that Buffy must learn to function alone, both in her calling and in the everyday world. My help to her will only delay the inevitable - that however I mean to be at her side forever I, like her mother, will one day die. Much sooner, God-willing, than she._

_I have often found myself detesting Buffy’s father for the way he abandoned her and Dawn, but now I find myself in a situation that I’m sure she will interpret as the same. I have no explanation, except that unlike him, I mean to leave not to pursue a new life of my own, but to let her live hers, with the hope that she will embrace it again as she once did._

“Buffy.”

She should have felt guilty. Giles sounded so disappointed, and usually that was enough to get her miserable as the little girl who was sure her parents’ fights were all her fault, but even when she saw his knee bent down next to her, kneeling on the carpet, and his hand imposed into her field of vision and pulled the journal off her lap, all she could feel was tired. “You think this is good for me? You think... you think this is for the best?”

“Do you really think I would leave if I didn’t?” Calloused fingers touched her arm, the metal of the signet ring on his pinky finger as warm as his skin. 

“I don’t know anymore.” 

She heard a sigh, and the hand on her arm moved to her shoulder, turning her gently but firmly - implacable and undeniable - to face him. “Buffy... you have to know that your behavior of late cannot continue. I’m happy to help you, to... to, to be here while you get back on your feet. But I cannot allow you to sit back while I take over your responsibilities.”

“It’s too much.”

“It’s not.” He smiled at her, and it was just like being back in school, back in the library, when everything had seemed so... well, not simple, because things hadn’t been _simple_ since she was fifteen. But they’d been easier than this, that much she was sure of. “You will succeed at this, Buffy, just as you’ve surpassed every trial you’ve come up against so far.”

“But this is _different._ It’s not like... If I could just slay something and make it all better, that’d be one thing, but this--”

“Is real life, Buffy. And that’s exactly what makes it so difficult. I’m afraid growing up is... a bit harder than slaying vampires, when it comes down to it,” he added, wiping his glasses on one of the omnipresent handkerchiefs. I can only hope... that you’ll manage it a bit better than I did at your age. But I’m afraid it’s something we all must come to on our own, in time. We’ll be in touch, though. Whenever you need me, I’ll be just a phone call away, I promise.”

“All that other stuff... I didn’t know...”

He waited patiently, arms crossed over his chest, and she felt a sudden rush of emotion. Guilt, yes, and sadness still tinged with more than a little anger at him for walking out on her right when she needed him most, but also a strange relief, like the opening of a floodgate she didn’t even know was there. And over it all, a warm, complicated, and endlessly comforting love. 

“Didn’t know what, Buffy?” 

It _was_ just like all those times in the library - like the time with the Master, when he’d pushed and pushed her toward her destiny, talking about responsibility and the fate of the world, and then stood up at the last minute, ready to storm off like an idiot and get himself killed for her, a girl he barely even knew. Like the birthday parties he endured even when they didn’t turn into disasters and just left him standing around, awkward and out-of-place, but always ready with a smile for her, proud and encouraging. Like after Angel turned, when they’d both stood on the edge of a knife, ready to give up, and pulled each other together back to sanity. 

“Y’know... no.” Buffy straightened her back and met him eye to eye, Slayer to Watcher. Friend to friend. “That’s not true. I _did_ know.” She held the journal out to him, not letting go of his eyes. “Thanks, Giles. For everything.”

She was afraid for a moment that he wouldn’t get it, that he’d ask what she meant, and then she’d say something stupid and ruin the whole moment, because she just didn’t have it in her to lay it all out in words without crying. Then he smiled, and looked down at the book to avoid her eyes in that weird, embarrassed way he did everytime something got a little too personal, and she knew he understood. 

“You’re very welcome, Buffy.” Giles took the journal back from her and wrapped it carefully in his fleece, tucking it back in the bag where it belonged. “For everything up to now, and for everything I fully expect to happen in the future.”

“Does this mean I’m forgiven for eating the last of those butter cookies you brought?”

Giles rolled his eyes, exactly as she’d known he would. “No. For that, I’m afraid you’ll be on my black-list forever. You’re only lucky I’m going back to England tomorrow, where I’ll be able to get another box and _not_ have to worry about you or Xander stealing all of them.”

Maybe the world hadn’t changed _quite_ as much as Buffy’d been afraid it had.


End file.
